Never Bored
by fbis.most.unwanted
Summary: John returns home only to find that Sherlock has overdosed and is fading fast. The only thing left for John to do is hope that he won't lose the only person he truly cares about.


Chapter One

Silence hung in the air in 221B, which was not an uncommon state for John to return to. He was used to the quiet now. It was late, and the doctor struggled to see in the darkened flat. John's fingers found the light switch after a few moments of searching.

John sank into his chair, not realizing until that moment how tired he was. Today was a particularly long day at the hospital, and as much as the doctor enjoyed his job, he was relieved that it was finally over.

The silence still blanketed the room, but that wasn't what bothered John. Something was off, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what was different.

John's eyes scanned the flat. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but that was not too unusual. John guessed that he was either in his bedroom or had gone out.

Almost instantly, the doctor discovered what was missing. The flat was clean –well, maybe not spotless, but certainly not messy. Most people wouldn't be complaining about this, but then again, most people didn't have Sherlock Holmes for a flatmate.

John had thought 221B would be in a much worse state. Sherlock didn't currently have a case –and hadn't had one in eight days- so, naturally, he was bored out of his mind, and John knew what Sherlock did when he was bored.

The doctor fully expected the kitchen counter to be covered in beakers and test tubes filled with various chemicals John wasn't going to think about pronouncing, maybe a severed limb or an internal organ or two, but there was nothing.

For the past few days, John had been taking extra hours at the hospital just to get away from Sherlock's experiments, which were increasing in number and potentially life-threatening by the hour. He figured a bit of solitude would do the detective good –plus, it couldn't hurt John's sanity, either.

Now, John was growing worried. His mind raced with the possible outcomes, most of which he tried to convince himself were nothing more that paranoia.

"Sherlock?" John called out.

Once again, the doctor was greeted with silence, though it was not a comforting one this time. This silence only fueled the sickening feeling of dread that was turning his insides to knots.

John hastily brought himself to his feet, the tiredness immediately disappearing and replaced with worry.

He made his way down the hall, checking in the bathroom first. Just as he thought, it was as empty as the rest of the flat.

When John reached Sherlock's room, he knocked, hoping that the detective had fallen asleep (God knows Sherlock needed some sleep) and would be perfectly fine.

But there was no response, only silence.

John tried the knob. The door wouldn't budge, which meant that it was probably locked. Not wanting to break the door down unless he absolutely had to, John returned to the living room, trying to remember where Sherlock kept an extra key. He went over to the bookshelf, rifling through numerous books until he found what he was looking for.

John ventured down the hall once again and shoved the key into the lock. Opening the door, he entered the detective's room. If it weren't for one of the detective's feet sticking out from the space next to the window that was blocked from sight by his bed, John might have missed him entirely.

John walked closer to Sherlock, and he stopped dead in his tracks the moment he noticed the syringe on the floor.

"Sherlock!" the doctor rushed over his flatmate, dropping to his knees.

Sherlock was unconscious, and John wasn't even sure he was breathing. Much to his relief, John was able to find a pulse –a weak one, but a pulse nonetheless.

Sherlock was breathing, but only just. John wrapped an arm around his shoulders and tried as best he could to lift the detective upright.

For a brief moment, Sherlock's eyes fluttered halfway open. He tried to say something, but his words were distorted and garbled as he tried to get the sounds out of his throat.

"It's okay," John said, even though he wasn't a good enough liar to convince himself. The words were more for John's own reassurance than Sherlock's, who may or may not have been able to comprehend them. "Stay with me; you'll be okay."

With his free hand, John pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance. The only thing he could do was wait, and that was probably the worst part, because there was nothing he could do.

When the paramedics arrived, John still had Sherlock wrapped in his arms. The doctors had to pull John away so they could get Sherlock into the ambulance.

Fortunately, John was able to convince the paramedics to let him ride in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, which was good because the doctor was in no state to drive himself, and it would be nearly impossible to hail a cab at this time of night.

The ambulance ride was a hazy blur of strange people hooking Sherlock up to even stranger machines as they rushed to get the detective's heart rate at a stable pace. John wasn't even sure he said a word; he only sat and stared.

The paramedics were eventually able to stabilize Sherlock, but it didn't last long –saying that they had five minute's peace was being generous. The shrill cry of life support machines wailing sent the doctors rushing back into action.

Sherlock was fading, and John knew it. He knew that if he'd gotten home earlier, he could have stopped this. He knew that he should have known something was wrong sooner. He knew that this might very well be the last time he saw his best friend again.

And he knew that he had tears streaming down his cheeks.


End file.
